


The Train to Independence, Missouri

by myriadofnothing



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26751415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myriadofnothing/pseuds/myriadofnothing
Summary: A ficlet set in the Old West.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	The Train to Independence, Missouri

**Author's Note:**

> No. 1—Waking up restrained

Neal groaned as he woke up. He had managed to fall asleep while the train was underway, though he regretted it. The seats were narrow, so he’d had to lean in the corner partly sideways, and the bounce and grind of the wheels on the tracks had pounded though all his joints. Everything was stiff. The bruises he’d gotten from the marshal tackling him didn’t feel good, either. And being handcuffed the whole time hadn’t helped.

“Got enough beauty rest?” the marshal asked, across from him in the train car. He looked the opposite of how Neal felt, in a clean suit and smug as anything.

“Yeah,” Neal said, unsticking his cheek from where it’d gotten mashed into the sides of his teeth. “Feels great.” He looked out the dusty glass to the landscape chugging by: prairie grass; scraggly copses of trees huddling under small hillocks; a washed out, watercolor sky. “How long until Independence?”

“Tomorrow morning. Then a couple days to New York,” Marshal Burke said with a smile. He would be welcomed with accolades in New York. As for Neal, he would get his trial.

Neal shifted, trying to sit on the corner of his ass not yet bounced and rattled by the train into soreness. He smoothed at his hair and rubbed his wrists under the cuffs.

“Do I really need these?” Neal said of the cuffs, not for the first time. “What am I going to do, jump off a moving train and run off into Cherokee territory?”

Burke was unappreciative of the sarcasm; his brow creased. He leaned forward. “If you think you’re going to get a repeat of Great Bend, you can think again.”

Neal pulled back a fraction. He didn’t need Burke pissed at him when he was in charge of Neal’s bathroom breaks for the next week. He’d only been awake for two minutes and was already getting him riled up. He put a lid on the complaints and tried to stretch out his stiff joints in silence. 

Knowing Burke, they wouldn’t stay over in Independence for a bath, a meal, and a night in a hotel. They’d only debark to switch trains. That’d be the best time to shake him. He’d need a pick for the cuffs plus a whole lot of luck. He’d have to find a hiding place in an unfamiliar city with maybe a whole minute of a head start on Burke, if that.

He passed an hour staring out the window, trying to find a comfortable position, and trading a few quips with Burke that he couldn’t hold in. Then, the train car door slid open abruptly, revealing a man in a stiff conductor’s uniform.

“Good afternoon—ah,” he hesitated, as if surprised to see a lawman and a prisoner on his train. “Marshal,” he said to Burke with a nod, peering at his badge, and, “Er, sir,” he said to Neal, with an air of politeness enough to overlook Neal’s rumpled attire and cuffs. “I regret to inform you that we’re having a bit of trouble with the pistons. It shouldn’t take more than a half hour to fix,” he said placatingly, “But we will have to stop the train to get under the engine.”

“Trouble with the pistons?” Burke said suspiciously, looking at Neal as if he’d managed to sabotage the train while right under his nose.

“Nothing serious,” the conductor assured. “The engineers just have to spur the cylinder cock and replace the hot box, and we’ll be on our way in no time. Oh dear, is the window stuck?” he said, letting himself into the car. “Let me get that for you.”

“No, it’s not stuck,” Burke said as the conductor stepped over their legs in the small car. “It’s fine, leave it, thank you. Thank you!” Burke said, raising his voice as the conductor—that is to say, Mozzie in an Atlantic Railways uniform with a hat that was slightly too big— bumbled between them.

Mozzie held a most delightful object between his index and middle fingers, his back to Neal and his hand where Burke couldn’t see: a long, slim iron pick. Neal palmed it. Mozzie allowed Burke to shoo him back out into the corridor.

“Allow me to offer our most sincere apologies for the delay, Marshal.” Mozzie said with regained dignity after his slapstick show. “Can I offer you some refreshment during the stop? I’ve put a fine Bordeaux on ice in the rear car... for our more distinguished passengers,” Mozzie said, lowering his voice (as if he didn’t want the less-distinguished passengers to hear).

“I’ll be fine, thank you,” Burke said firmly, dismissing him.

Mozzie retreated and slid the train car door closed after himself.

Neal suppressed a smile. Bordeaux was the name of his horse.


End file.
